


no limit

by perissologist



Series: a little less conversation [6]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:04:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8481856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perissologist/pseuds/perissologist
Summary: “Uh—yeah.” Dick coughs. “The, y’know—dance scene.”Jason barks out a laugh. “Are you talking about that acrobatics shit you do?”“Um. That counts, doesn’t it?”Jason breaks into a full-blown smirk, eyes gleaming with poorly restrained amusement, and despite knowing that he’s being typecast as the dumb rich performer as they speak, Dick finds himself caring a little less than he should. “You know it doesn’t.”Dick considers him for a moment—the sly curve of his mouth, the look in his eyes—and makes a decision. He grins, bold and uncaring. “Then show me what does.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> No Limit choreography: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NS1HrKkM_88

 

 “You’re hiding.”

 

Dick starts, and the shutters of the blinds snap close around his fingers with a harsh _fwip_. He winces as he snatches his hand away, rubbing the stinging skin as he turns away from the window to where his little brother is sitting at his desk. “What?”

 

Tim doesn’t pause in his rapid-fire typing, but he does flick his eyes over the top of his computer to throw Dick a pointed look. “You’re using my office to hide from Bruce,” he repeats. The reprimand goes unsaid, but is conveyed clearly enough in his tone.

 

Dick opens his mouth, as if to protest—then closes it again, with a deliberate shrug. “Yeah.”

 

Tim rolls his eyes. “The least you could do is try to deny it. I’m starting to feel a little used.”

 

Dick grins, ambling across the room to boost himself up onto the edge of Tim’s desk. “I brought you lunch.”

 

“Almost two hours ago,” Tim points out, pausing to squint at something on his screen. “Now you’re just wasting time in here because you’re afraid you’ll run into Bruce if you leave when there’s still a chance that he might be out and about on his lunch break.” 

 

Dick picks up the swinging sticks sculpture next to Tim’s collection of glass paperweights and lifts it up to eye-level, observing it more closely than he probably needs to. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

That, at least, gets Tim to finally look at him, a dead expression on his face. “You do know that I have shit on you that should probably never see the light of day, right?”

 

Dick winces. “Jeez, little brother, when did you get so scary?” When Tim just keeps staring him down, unimpressed, Dick heaves an exaggerated sigh and sets the sculpture back down on the desk. “ _Fine_ , fine. I’ll admit it: Being forced to unexpectedly strike up a conversation with Bruce in front of dozens of his employees isn’t really at the top of my to-do list right now.” The flippancy settles out of his expression, leaving something pensive and faintly unhappy behind. “Besides, it’s—it’s not just that, either. Most of those people out there have known me since I was a kid.” He pauses, guilt prickling. “And they’ve been good to me, but—I don’t think they’ll ever see me as anything other than the boss’s son.”

 

Tim just watches him for a moment, quiet; then he sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, Dick, I know,” he says, gently. “I mean, I spend, like, thirty hours a week here, because Bruce needs someone who won’t bullshit him to keep his shit straight, but—I’m not even putting this job on my resumé. At some point, you get kind of sick of being just a Wayne heir, you know?” He pauses, chewing on his lip. “But I’m still here, and you’re still Bruce’s kid. You wouldn’t know, but—Bruce worries about you, man. Like, _really_ worries, like some sort of normal, emotionally functional adult or something.” Dick can’t help but snort at that, and Tim grins like he knows it. “I don’t know, man. Maybe Cass is right. Maybe it’s time for you guys to talk this out, once and for all.”

 

Dick swallows, looking down at his hands. “Cass is usually right, isn’t she?” he murmurs.

 

Tim hums. “Usually, yeah.”

 

Dick exhales, slow and measured, and spends a minute with his gaze lost somewhere in the middle distance, brow creased. Tim lets it happen; he knows his brother well enough by now to recognize that this is how Dick processes, and to know that he’s got about ten seconds for his message to sink in before Dick reverts back to pretending that everything is fine again—

 

Dick stirs, shaking himself, and Tim thinks, wryly, _There it is._ “Well, Timmy,” Dick declares, “you make a good point.” He sits up a little straighter, forcing the tension out of his posture to flash Tim a bracing smile. “But I think that’s enough about me, yeah? How’re things with you?”

 

Tim sighs and returns to the code he’s writing. _Typical._ “Things are fine, Dick.”

 

“School’s good?”

 

Tim rolls his eyes. “As good as it ever is.”

 

“How’s Steph?”

 

“She’s fine.”

 

“Bart? Billy?”

 

“Fine.”

 

Dick suddenly grins, eyes twinkling. “How’s that guy? What’s his name? Conrad? Conn—”

 

Tim twitches, and Dick smothers a victorious grin. It takes a second for Tim to respond; when he does, his voice is that special timbre of flatness that tells Dick he’s forcing himself to be calm. “Conner’s fine, too.”

 

Dick winks. “Oh, I bet he is—”

 

“ _Dick!_ ” Dick gets the sense that Tim isn’t saying his name when he grabs the nearest item within his reach and chucks it at him. “Dirt _._ Yours. _Shouldn’t see the light of_ —”

 

“Alright! Alright! I get it!”

 

~*~

 

Dick leaves Tim to his work and sneaks out of the building around three, counting it as a personal victory when he makes it across the floor, down sixteen flights of stairs, and through the bustling lobby without running into Bruce or any of his veritable army of personal aides. He glances at his watch as he hurries out of the rotating doors, running through his schedule in his head—he’s booked the stage at the Foundation for a private session at three-thirty, and if he hurries he can get a solid hour of practice in before—

 

_“Oomph!”_

 

Dick grunts, startled, as he crashes head-on into something solid and unyielding, the collision violent enough to send him sprawling onto the sidewalk. He manages to catch himself with his hands before he breaks his tailbone, but his forearms ache dully from the impact, and he’s acutely aware that he’s just been knocked onto his ass in broad daylight in the busiest part of the Financial District. He winces at the pain and the embarrassment, an apology already half-formed as he looks up at his victim—

 

Blue-green eyes stare at him from underneath a scruffy lock of snow-white hair, and the words die on Dick’s tongue. “ _Oh_. It’s—you.”

 

Jason Todd looks back at him like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “Me?” He shifts the duffle he’s carrying back over his shoulder and holds out a hand. “You’re the famous one.”

 

Dick grins, surprised, and takes it, letting Jason haul him to his feet. “I’m not _famous._ ”

 

Jason lifts an eyebrow and points across the street, just in time for the billboard over the Metropolitan Theater to change from a superhero movie promo to an ad for the Classics Company, featuring Dick arcing over a host of ballerinas smack dab in the center.

 

Dick feels his ears tinge pink. “Ah.” He coughs. “Well. All that means is that there are more people to recognize that it was me who just fell on my ass a few seconds ago.” He pauses, unable to stop his gaze from flicking down and up Jason’s frame. He’s standing tall and steady, looking loose and relaxed in a pair of joggers and a hoodie, not a hair out of place. “Though that probably wouldn’t be a problem for you, considering the fact that you didn’t even _flinch_. What are you, made of steel?”

 

Jason snorts, the quirk of his lips infinitely amused. “Grayson, you weigh, like, five pounds.”

 

Dick frowns. “What? I do not.”

 

Jason laughs. “Yeah, you do. I kinda didn’t even notice that you’d walked into me until you fell over.” And there’s that glint in his eye again, the same one that Dick saw back in the coffeeshop, sharp and undeniably challenging. “You ballerina types are kind of delicate, aren’t you?”

 

Dick just grins, sharp and toothy. “Wouldn’t know, I’m not one,” he says. “But you should meet my sister sometime.”

 

Jason chuckles, low and friendly, and Dick gets a little more caught up in it than he should. “Alright, point taken. I guess I wouldn’t know, huh?”

 

_Ah._ So the hip-hop second life is a secret. Or it’s supposed to be, anyway. Dick keeps his smile in place. He knows a little something about that. “You might, a bit. You dance, don’t you?”

 

And, there it is—Dick can _see_ the surprise that flinches through him, the slightest withdrawal in his posture as the way Jason looks at him suddenly shifts. He puts on a good show, though, tilting his head and blinking at Dick like he really doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “Why do you say that?”

 

“Roy’s street dance crew,” Dick says. He keeps his tone light, casual. “You’re in it, aren’t you?”

 

Jason just looks at him for a minute, blank, and Dick thinks that he’s going to deny it—but apparently he’s too smart for that. “How do you know about that?”

 

Dick exhales. _So that crew—it_ is _them._ Distracted by the thought of Roy and illegal activities and all the implications that carries, he answers “I’m on the scene,” without thinking—then immediately winces as his own words come crashing back to him. _Fuck. Why don’t you just wear a t-shirt that says ‘I’m Nightwing,’ Dick ‘What’s a secret identity?’ Grayson?_

 

Jason’s brow ticks upward again. “You’re ‘on the scene’?”

 

“Uh—yeah.” Dick coughs. “The, y’know—dance scene.”

 

Jason barks out a laugh. “Are you talking about that acrobatics shit you do?”

 

“Um.” _Well, here goes my reputation._ “That counts, doesn’t it?”

 

Jason breaks into a full-blown smirk, eyes gleaming with poorly restrained amusement, and despite knowing that he’s being typecast as the dumb rich performer as they speak, Dick finds himself caring a little less than he should. “You know it doesn’t.”

 

Dick considers him for a moment—the sly curve of his mouth, the _look_ in his eyes—and makes a decision. He grins, bold and uncaring. “Then show me what does.”

 

They stare at each other, Dick beaming like the brazen harlot he is, Jason looking back at him with the beginnings of something equal parts awed and disbelieving curling his lips. At last, Jason laughs, and Dick knows he's got him. “Alright,” he drawls, like a dare. “You got time?”

 

Dick blinks. “Right now?”

 

“Yeah.” Jason gestures to the duffle over his shoulder. “I was actually on my way to meet up with some people right now. You wanna come?”

 

Dick licks his lip, all thoughts of a solitary practice session at the Foundation forgotten. “Yeah,” he says, living for the way Jason’s _smug_ turns into _pleased_. “I’m in. Lead the way.”

 

~*~

 

“Jason! Jason! Jason!”

 

Dick looks on, gawking in surprise, as a horde of jubilant preteens stream off the basketball court, heading straight for Jason in a mob of upturned faces and happy shouts. Jason laughs as they crowd his legs, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Alright, alright, you gremlins, back off and give a man a chance to breathe, will ya?”

 

Ignoring him entirely, one of the children—a skinny waif of a thing, with enormous brown eyes and natural hair bound into an airtight braid down her back—practically tackles him at the knees, laughing when he yelps and stumbles to keep his balance. “Didya get the jackets?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, got ‘em all right here.” Jason slides his duffle off his shoulder and knees down to unzip it, and the _look_ on the kids’ faces when he reveals the contents—it twists something deep inside Dick’s chest. The bag is stuffed with a dozen tiny denim jackets, each embroidered with the word _BLACKTOPS_ in black thread on the back, each featuring an _RH Automatics_ patch on the left sleeve. “Have at it, boys and girls,” Jason declares, and the kids don’t need to be told twice—they pounce on the jackets like they’re stolen treasure, squawking and shoving at each other as they fight to claim one in their preferred size. Dick can’t help the warmth that blooms in his chest as he watches them. They remind him of his little siblings, bickering amongst each other; they remind him of himself and his friends, not so long ago.

 

It’s a kid in a too-big gray t-shirt with carroty red hair who finally notices Dick, halfway through shrugging on a jacket. He freezes as he makes eye contact, and for a second it’s just Dick and the kid staring at each other, both with expressions like they’ve been caught—then the kid coughs, loudly, drawing the others’ attention. “Uh, Jay,” he says, gaze steady and unwavering, “you didn’t tell us you knew Dick Grayson.”

 

The name drops like a magical curse that brings instant silence down upon the group. Dick flushes as a dozen pairs of eyes whip around to fixate on him, wide and wondering. “Uh,” he stutters. “Hi?”

 

“ _Jason!_ ” the girl with the braid screeches, and a bunch of her friends groan and cover their ears, muttering “Jesus, Nell, cool it,” under their breaths. “You brought frickin’ _Dick Grayson_ here?”

 

Jason snorts, rising to his feet to walk over to where Dick is standing awkwardly rooted to his spot. “Yeah, yeah, he’s a celebrity, you love him, I get it.” He claps Dick on the back, a little too hard. “Everyone, as you probably already know, this is Grayson; he used to know Roy, don’t ask me how. Grayson, meet the Blacktops, Gotham’s coolest, most obnoxious junior dance crew.” At the slightly stricken look on Dick’s face, he rolls his eyes and lowers his voice. “Don’t look like that, they don’t do the stuff we do—they compete in perfectly legit regional dance competitions.”

 

“Oh.” Dick smiles, relieved. “Nice to meet you guys.”

 

Another girl, no older than thirteen but with cautious eyes that seem to belie her age, looks skeptically from Dick to Jason. “You said you know ‘im through _Roy_?”

 

Dick feels his smile tighten around the edges. “He introduced us,” he says—then, “Roy and I used to dance together."

 

Dick feels Jason’s eyes dart to him, wide, but he keeps his gaze fixed ahead. The kids look at each other in surprise, some seeming more excited about this prospect than others; still, the general consensus is a vague “What? No way”—until the red-haired boy looks to Dick with a thoughtful frown.

 

“No offense, but aren’t you, like, an acrobat or something?” he asks. “How’d you dance with Roy?”

 

“I—” Dick starts—then stops, suddenly at a loss. He thought he could talk about this again, tell the story without all the ugly parts—but all he can see is the pale, taught expression on Roy’s face when they first saw each other in the coffeeshop, Wally telling him _You were a kid_ like that negates any of his actions—

 

“Yeah, he is,” Jason says abruptly, “and the reason I brought him here was so he could see what real dance looks like.” _That_ catches the kids’ attention, sending a ripple of snickering agreement through the group. “So are you going to show him, or is the garage sponsoring you freeloaders for nothing?”

 

The kids laugh, and the girl with the braid—Nell—looks excited. “We _have_ been practicing our freestyles to this new song.”

 

“Alright then, get a move on,” Jason says, and the kids obey, scampering back towards the blacktop to where they’ve set up a practice space inside a ring of towels, water bottles, gym bags, and an old-school boombox. 

 

Dick hesitates. “Thanks.”

 

Jason glances at him. “For what?”

 

“For—” Dick coughs. “That.” 

 

Jason just looks at him for a moment, expression inscrutable. At last, he offers a deferential nod. “I figure that, one day, Roy will tell me what went down between you two, and I think I want to hear his side of the story first.”

 

Dick blinks at him. “Right. That’s—good.” He faces forward again, swallowing. “You’re a good friend to him.”

 

Jason hums, noncommittal. “He deserves one.”

 

And, fuck, aren’t there a million things that Dick could say to _that_ —but he’s spared the chance as a synth-heavy, melodic intro begins echoing from the boombox. Most of the kids are standing or sitting in a circle around the court, but a handful are on their feet in the center, stretching out their shoulders, bouncing lightly on their heels as they wait for the song to begin. Dick feels himself relax; he has a feeling that this will be entertaining.

 

_“Make you say uh, no limit,”_ Usher croons, and the kids leap into action, starting with a smooth shoulder roll, one hand fisted in the hems of their shirts, that slides down their torsos into a grind of their hips. _“Got that Master P, no limit baby,”_ and they spring back onto their heels to bounce from foot to foot with quick, flitting steps, forearms raised and crossed, hands loose. One hand circles out on _“Give you that black card, no limit,”_ followed by legs step-kicking out behind them, and a twist to the side as each foot plants down separately—then it’s down to balance on a hand and foot while the unoccupied leg sweeps out to the side, before the other leg slides out to join it, and hips twist back in forth in time to the beat of _“Just know when you roll with a nigga like me, there’s no limit baby—”_

 

The voice changes, Young Thug taking over the chorus with _“You know you fine, baby you know that you fine_ ,” and the kids spring back up again, hips swaying, bodies like an electrical conduit for the beat. The movement translates effortlessly into chests dipping inwards and knees popping out to _“I’m just tryna make you mine, tryna make you mine, yeah I’m tryna make you mine”_ —then a sharp one-eighty turn to go perfectly still, posture ramrod-straight, hands locked behind them and fluttering at the small of their back to _“Put a tingle in your spine—”_ The spectators whoop, crowing like they were waiting for just that part, and the performers laugh and go loose again, kicking and jumping in time to the beat as the song thrums on, the tightly disciplined routine falling apart in favor of a jubilant, playful freestyle that takes them galloping around the circle to the cheers and claps of their friends.

 

Dick turns to Jason, jaw halfway to dropped. “Jason,” he says, a little speechless. “They’re _good._ ”

 

Jason chuckles. “Yeah, they’re fucking amazing. I’ve known most of these kids since they were toddlers, and they’re more dedicated than half the crews out there.” He points to the dark-haired girl with the wary eyes and the red-haired boy. “Maya and Colin, they do most of the choreography; Kyle and I help them out sometimes, but they’re starting to do just fine on their own.” His eyes go soft, and Dick feel something funny happen inside his chest at the pride he sees there. “Most of them are from the East End, so they don’t have a lot of people looking out for them, but—they’re never bitter. They look out for each other.” 

 

Dick smiles. “That’s important,” he says.

 

Jason looks at him and swallows, slow. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

**Author's Note:**

> things you should know about dick grayson:
> 
> -the boy can't keep a secret identity secret to save his own life  
> -he is the most fucking extra flirt on earth--see above
> 
> seriously though this ridiculous man couldn't keep his name hidden/keep it in his pants if he tried, he is basically kim kardashian 
> 
> dick, frame 1: i like dropping hints that i'm nightwing  
> dick, frame 2: i'm nightwing 
> 
> anyways, this is the last installment i had preplanned, so i'll probably be starting on prompts soon? whatever happens, i'm always looking for someone to chat with about this hot mess, so hit me up in the comments or at perissologist.tumblr.com/ask!


End file.
